The Blue Pilgrim
by JA Baker
Summary: People tell stories. Always have, always will. But some are a lot more complicated then others...


_The _Fable_ games are the intellectual property of Lionhead Studios  
__The grim-darkness of _Warhammer 40,000_ is the intellectual property of Games Workshop  
__I hope that they accept that I mean no disrespect by this work, and will be making no money from it  
__One-shot story to deal with a plot-bunny  
Reposting due to some missing text the first time round.__  
_

**The Blue Pilgrim**

People tell stories.

It's nothing new; they've been doing it since our ancestors huddle around the first camp fires countless millennia ago, turning their backs to the dark and the dangers it held even then. Those first stories were often told to pass on lessens to the young, to teach them something important in a way that it would be easy to remember. Some of these stories remain with us to this day, almost engrained in our very DNA. Stories of heroes and villains, of great deeds and vial treachery, of loves and lives won and lost. The names and places may change, but the story remains the same.

The stories we tell today are often more complicated, involving events and creatures those distant ancestors could never have imagined in their wildest dreams. For the universe is a vastly more complicated place; gods and demons walk among us every day, and we have spread out far from the world that first nurtured us. But the dark is no less frightening, and our stories no less important.

The type of stories people tell often depends upon who and where they are. A farmer who spends his days tends crops will often sit and tell his children stories that will prepare them for a life of working the land, while the inhabitants of a great city will speak of glittering towers of glass and steel that stretch up to the stars themselves. But the best stories, well, they still involve people; the same sort of heroes and villains that have enthralled humanity down the ages. And again, location is important; worlds that have known only peace tend to have stories with happy endings, while the inhabitants of worlds that have been touched by the hand of destruction know that such stories are fairy-tales. There are some stories that are known far and wide, stories that are told so often they become more than the sum of their parts. These are the stories that inspire and ennoble, warn and chastise. But there are other stories; stories that are never told out in the open, stories that are little more than half whispered rumour and third, forth and fifth hand information.

These are often the truest stories of them all.

And the best.

One such tale is that of the Blue Pilgrim.

He is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, more myth than man. You will find no mention of him in books or data-net, and even speaking his name aloud can draw the attention of those you might rather avoid. Yet despite this, his stories survive because, in a dark and uncaring universe, he remains one of the few bright sparks. No one knows for sure where he came from, even if many would would like to lay claim to him if they could, nor is it clear where he is going, or if he even knows himself. One thing that is clear is that he is old, far older than anything not touch by the hand of a god or a demon could ever hope to see. He has the form of a man, but his body is wrapped in faded blue cloth, with golden armour hanging from his shoulder and belt. He is tall, some say as tall as Astartes, but stands hunched over and frail, as if he carries the weight of a world on his shoulders. Few have seen his face, for he keeps it hidden under bindings, with only dray, cracked lips and dark, soulful eyes visible. In his gauntleted hands he carries a bundle wrapped in the same cloth that hides his form, and despite his wasted form, his grip is strong.

It is impossible to track his journey across the worlds of man and beyond; he seems able to move between places without being seen, a spectre that is as likely to be seen in the lowest transient camp as the mightiest temple. He says little, and never anything about himself or his past, no matter who asks, be they commoner or lord, Inquisitor or Astartes. What is know is that none who have spoken to him have ever bared his way or hindered his travels, or spoken of it to others. He walks where he wishes, with none save the Adeptus Custodes willing to refuse him. It is said that he has sought entry to the Imperial Palace many times, but has always found his path blocked by its most loyal and steadfast guardians, but even they seem to treat him with respect that borders on reverence. What business he has on Holy Terra is as much a mystery as his past, for even if you were to pick through the stories of his travails, seeking the few specks of truth amid the hearsay, it would be impossible to determine what strange compulsion drives him ever onward. Some claim to have seen him begging on the streets, others claim to have knelt beside him in pray at a shrine.

All are possible true, but it is the stories of his prowess on the battlefield that are the most unbelievable.

He has stood before xenos and heresy, the weapon he carries inside his bundle an instrument of divine judgement, rendering all those who would take up arms against him. Those who have seem him say his actions are both graceful and clinical, almost dance like in their nature, and that no weapon forged by man, xenos or daemon can touch him. He has saved worlds and defeated armies, only to fade away again like the dawn mist before the rising sun. He seeks no acclimations, no statues or songs of remembrance. His reasons are his own, and that is enough for him. Yet many claim that, in his heart, he is not a warrior; he has parleyed with xenos to avert bloodshed, and shown the heretical the error of their ways with simple words. For that, many would consider him heretical himself, yet none of his actions have ever caused harm to a single imperial citizen, or damaged the Imperium itself in any way.

Of his past and his endless wondering, he will say only this; he is seeking absolution for an unspeakable sin, but fears he will not find it until he proves himself to his father.

It has been a long time now since he was last seen; some say he found the forgiveness he was looking for, others that he finally gave up his seemingly endless quest, and died, alone and forgotten on some distant world. But maybe, just maybe, he's still out there, walking his lonely path towards redemption.

Whatever the truth, he lives on in the stories...

**The End**


End file.
